


Promise Me

by lady_wordsmith



Series: Promise Me Verse (Bucky Barnes/Reader) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heavy Angst, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Romance, Sad Ending, Terminal Illnesses, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8880328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_wordsmith/pseuds/lady_wordsmith
Summary: Tumblr ask box request: “ 'Why is it we’re always the unlucky ones?' and 'Please don’t leave me.' with Bucky or Steve."As you lie in a hospital bed, you and Bucky discuss your life together and make promises to each other you may not be able to keep.





	

“Would you come to my funeral?”

The words are out of your mouth almost before they form in your brain. You’re lying in bed, and Bucky is sitting at your side, holding your hand and almost dozing off in his chair. Bucky seems to snap awake at that, and he pulls away from you and you can see the pain in his eyes as he frowns.

“Don’t joke about that, doll.” He whispers, and you can hear the shakiness in his voice as he reaches forward again and threads a hand into your hair.

“I’m not. You know…” and you trail off, your eyes falling to look away from Bucky. You know the path his eyes are taking, the same path your own eyes and fingers take every time you stand naked in front of the mirror. You don’t get the chance to look at it much anymore, but the scar is still hard to forget. You wonder how often it’s on Bucky’s mind.

“Don’t.” Bucky insists, and his voice is desperate now. “They said hardly anyone your age group dies of this anymore.”

“That was before they told us about-“

“Stop!” and he pulls away from you and stands up, and you can see the tears rolling down his face. “You’ll be fine; they said you would be okay!”

“Then why haven’t they corrected it?” You sit up in bed and gesture to the scar on your chest, even though it’s covered by your hospital gown. “They tried, James, twice, and all it got me was a place on the transplant list because it didn’t work! The odds of me surviving this are astronomical. Assuming they find a compatible heart and lung set, assuming I don’t die of a stroke in the meantime, assuming the tear doesn’t just get worse and _kill_ me before I even-“

You can’t finish, because the sobs are overwhelming you. Bucky doesn’t even hesitate, sliding into the hospital bed next to you, carefully minding the IVs and tubes coming out of you from every which way, and holds you in his arms, his grasp on you tighter than normal, as if he can keep the specter of death away by hiding you away in his arms.

Bucky hums quietly under his breath as you try to calm yourself down. Burying your face into his neck, you listen carefully. He’s a little off-key, and can’t hum the tune completely, but it’s familiar enough that you recognize it.

“ _The Sleeping Beauty_. Tchaikovsky. The vision scene. The Lilac Fairy shows Prince Florimund a vision of Aurora.” You say, in between sniffles. You look up and smile at Bucky through the remnants of your tears.

“Yeah. The first ballet you took me to, and one of the first I’d ever seen, really. I thought I would be bored out of my skull.” Bucky says, laughing slightly.

“And you loved it. I saw you. You looked so amazed at the dancing.”

“I was amazed at _you_.” Bucky says, and you raise your eyebrows. “You looked so content watching it. I remember your smile then. Like just seeing it made you happy.”

You don’t say the memory of watching it is bittersweet, for so many reasons. You know that Bucky knows it is, though he may not know the whole story.

“I dreamed about dancing Princess Aurora when I was little.” You say. “I always wanted to perform the Rose Adagio.”

Bucky simply looks at you, his eyes soft and fond. You wonder if he’s imagining you on stage, in costume in all your glory, not sick in a hospital bed waiting on the edge of life and death.

“I never wanted the lead roles in most productions, you know? I was never out for glory… I just wanted to dance. But I always wanted two specific roles, just those two. Giselle and Aurora. I would have danced in the _corps de ballet_ the rest of my life just to play them.”

“ _Giselle_ ’s the ballet where she’s betrayed by her lover and dies, right?” Bucky asks.

You roll your eyes. “That’s, like, half the ballets _ever_ , Bucky.” You scold in a playful tone.

“She dies of a weak heart, doesn’t she?” Bucky asks, and his tone isn’t light and playful in return to yours.

You know his mind is somewhere along that parallel, thinking of you. You sigh.

“Partially. She finds out Albrecht is betrothed to another and dances herself into a fit of madness that kills her. Then she’s sort of resurrected by the spirits of vengeful women like her who were betrayed by their lovers, who try to make her one of them. The spirits try to force Giselle’s lover to dance himself to death but her love saves him and breaks her from the spirits’ control.”

“She still dies, though.” Bucky says, and his voice has gone quiet again.

“But she broke free of the hatred and vengeance that would have held her prisoner for eternity. She gets to rest in peace.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but you notice the way he swallows, the slight way his body trembles next to you.

“If I go…” Bucky trails off and you look up at him. He’s looking away, his eyes far away and distant. “If the worst happens, and I go to your funeral, will you… Will you be at peace?”

You close your eyes, exhaling a soft sigh. “I think so, yes. I certainly wouldn’t come back and make you dance yourself to death.”

“I’m not a half-bad dancer, though.” Bucky jokes, but you don’t need to open your eyes to see his weak, pasted-on smile and that his joke is only half-hearted at best.

“ _Ballet_ dancing, James. You’ve never danced ballet in your life. You’d make a terrible Albrecht to my Giselle.”

“No, but the dances I _do_ know need a partner. I could dance with you then, couldn’t I?”

“I don’t know anything else other than ballet, really. Some other dances that were part of a ballet, maybe, but only little bits. I don’t think I know anything you might know.”

“We’d work it out, you and me. We’d make it look simple and easy, the two of us. Ya think so, doll?”

“You’re distracting me, Bucky.”

“I promised, doll. But you gotta promise something, too.”

“If I can.” Your voice is tiny and small now, and it reminds Bucky of how weak and fragile you are in the hospital bed.

“You’ve got to keep fighting. I’ll go, I _promise_ I’ll go to your funeral if you don’t make it through this, but you have to fight.” Bucky says. “I know I sound selfish, but… Please, _please_ don’t leave me.”

“As much as I can, but James… I don’t know how much fight I have left.”

“You’ll make it. And you’ll be back playing Giselle and Aurora and all those other big parts before you know it.”

You smile, but it wavers a bit.

“What was the first ballet you ever went to?” you ask him. “You said that _The Sleeping Beauty_ was one of the first, but not the first.”

“I don’t remember.” Bucky says, but he’s hedging, looking away from you. He’s lying, and you think maybe he’s embarrassed. It’s quiet for a long time before you speak up again.

“ _The Nutcracker_. I was four, it was near Christmastime, and my parents took me because I was going to be starting lessons in the spring.” You offer. Bucky looks back at you and you look up at him, a slight smile on your features. “My mom was so proud of me for wanting to dance like her; she made my dad splurge on the best seats in the house. I wouldn’t be dancing, _really_ dancing, for a few years yet, and she still thought I was the greatest dancer ever.”

“Makes two of us, me and her.” Bucky says, and you blush in spite of yourself. “Hey, what’s the one, the guy falls in love with the doll and all that crazy stuff happens with his actual girlfriend trying to save him from the crazy inventor?”

“I think you mean _Coppélia_.” Bucky nods at your answer and you raise your eyebrows in confusion.

“That’s the one! _Coppélia_. The first one I saw.” He informs you.

“Oh.” You say simply. “When?”

Bucky pretends to think for a minute. “Three years ago. Back when I was first getting reintroduced to society at large? Can’t remember the name of the damn ballet company, though.”

You bump your forehead against Bucky’s gently with a laugh. “You ass,” you tell him. “ _I_ was in the first ballet you ever saw? Really? You lie.”

“Not a lie.” He says, brushing his lips against your temple.

“I wasn’t even Swanhilda, I was, like, unnamed friend number four.”

“See? Best dancer ever. Not even named in the production and the world’s most damaged man falls in love with you and your dancing.”

* * *

 

“You don’t have to come, Clint.” You said into your cell phone, rolling your eyes as you kept looking for your tights.

“Yes, I do. Lila and Laura are insisting on it.”

“It’s **_Coppélia_** _,_ Clint. _The Nutcracker_ , I could see. _Swan Lake_ , I’ll buy. But _Coppélia_? Bull. Don’t blame it on your wife and kid, Barton.” You said, jabbing an accusatory finger in the air even though he couldn’t see it. “Besides, I know you bought tickets to the 8 o’clock on Tuesday. If you were bringing the kid, it would at least be a weekend matinee like the other parents.”

“Maybe I’m being the fun parent for once.” Clint protested, but you could tell even Clint can detect the weakness in his argument.

“What’s the story, Clint? I won’t laugh… much, anyway.”

“How do you even know what tickets I bought, anyway?” Clint asked as you finally found your tights.

“You bought them at the box office like an old fart who thinks the internet is too newfangled and complicated, Clint. The box office guys know you by sight.” You told him, trying to slip on your tights while holding the phone and falling over for your trouble. You let a very loud “Ooaf!” from the floor and grabbed for your phone.

“You okay there, champ? That ballet grace seems to be failing you.” Clint said, and you could hear him laugh as you grabbed the phone and stood back up.

“Off is the direction in which you can fuck, Barton.” You grumbled, sitting on your bed and trying again with the tights as you put him on speaker.

“Look, kid. I made a promise to your dad-“

“You were a junior agent then, Clint, and it only extended to making sure I didn’t grow up to be some cautionary Lifetime movie of the week about the dangers of ballet. And I was already fourteen when he died, anyway, so most of the job was done for you. You don’t have to go.” You reminded him.

“Still made a promise, kid. Besides, it’s not all about you. Official business.”

“Attending a small time ballet performance is official business? Like, Avengers stuff? How? I call bullshit. No, I call mega ultra _suprimo_ bullshit.”

“Can’t talk about it. Spy stuff.”

“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.” You chirped in a sing-song voice.

“See you after the performance, kid. I’ll be getting you dinner.”

“That’s a horrible idea. You’ve seen how much I eat.”

“Believe me, I’m regretting it already, and you’ll understand why when I see you.”

Clint hung up, and you finished getting ready and went to practice. You didn’t think about it much until you were getting ready for that particular performance, and even then your mind was still on chatting with the other dancers and psyching each other up and keeping the energy positive.

“You coming with us after the performance tonight, hon? We’re thinking about getting pizzas.” the girl playing Swanhilda asked you, looking up at you from the vanity where she was having the last finishes of her stage makeup applied. Her name is Faye, and she was probably one of the company’s best, although she would have begged to differ, saying you were better than her. The two of you had been as thick as thieves since you were hired by the company.

You shook your head. “Sorry, Faye,” you told her, giving your hair one last check, finding a stray tuft and putting it back into place with hairspray and a toothbrush. “Clint’s taking me to dinner.”

“That man. Doesn’t he have a wife?”

“It’s not like that, Faye. He and my dad worked together.“ you said, focusing to make sure every last bit of makeup is where it’s supposed to be. You lingered a moment, but once you made sure it was all there, you narrowed your eyes at Faye playfully.

“I know, I know. Just weird he’s taking you to dinner by himself.”

“Actually, he’s bringing some work friends.”

“Oh? You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

You promised to do so as the stage manager began yelling at the dancers to take their places. After that, you were too focused on the performance to think much. You’d always known you weren’t a natural and graceful dancer, like your mother was or Faye is, but you liked to think you made up for it with your obvious enthusiasm. You’d always had to practice rigorously, for hours and hours to make sure you looked at least somewhat competent, and you knew this meant you’ll probably never be one of the company’s featured principal dancers. Still, you could dance energetically until you dropped, out of breath and redfaced, and you liked to think this made you at least somewhat valuable to the company. Few people could outdance you, energy-wise, and fewer could do it with a smile as long as you. It was pretty amazing, considering.

After the performance and curtain call was over, you texted Clint, telling him you’d be out soon. You grabbed a quick shower to wash off the layers of stage makeup, hair products, and sweat, which relaxed you immensely. You loved performing, but washing off the grime of a performance was a nirvana all its own. You had always felt there was a clear division of you as a performer and you as a person, and that division began when you put on your costumes and makeup and ended when you hit that shower at the end of a performance. You always felt more like yourself after that shower, ready to leave a performance behind.

After you finished the shower, you had put your wet hair in a braided bun and get dressed quickly. Clint had said it wouldn’t be fancy, so you dressed as you usually did, into a top that skims your shoulders and a pair of skinny jeans, tucking them into your favorite boots. Giving yourself one last check to make sure nothing is out of place and you didn’t look exhausted or rushed, you headed out, catching Clint hanging out off to the side of the dressing rooms.

“Barton!” You called out. “I told you no peeping in to the dressing rooms!”

Clint jumped, but then he laughed and hugged you, keeping his arm around you as he brought you over to his friends, who were lingering off away from the dressing rooms. He explained the situation quietly to you as he brought you along.

“We’re helping resocialize the new guy, you know, the-“

“I’d heard. But you chose _ballet_? Poor bastard! I should apologize on your behalf.” You teased.

“It seemed like a good idea-“

“Was it?”

“Strangely, yes. He usually doesn’t do so well in crowds, because they pay him a lot of attention, so we thought-“

“Bring him to a performance of something else so their attention isn’t focused on him. I get it. Dad did the same thing with some of the people SHIELD helped rehab.“

“Why I thought of it, yeah. Since I get a discount here-“

“The hell you do! Since when?”

“Since I lied and said I was your family.”

By then, you’d joined the group Clint came with and he made introductions. You already knew Laura and Natasha, who seemed to have dragged Steve with her. You could tell which one the “new guy”was. His long hair was pulled back and he was dressed nicely, but his nerves stuck out like a sore thumb. He looked unsteady, ready to jump out of his skin in a second.

“This is James,” Clint told you as the guy stuck out his hand for you to shake. You noted the hand- and indeed, the whole arm- was metal, and the guy seemed to remember this as well and he went to withdraw his hand, but you pulled the kind of move your father would been proud of you for. You smiled warmly at James and clasped his hand in both of yours, telling him your name and thanking him for coming to the performance.

“I really hope you enjoyed yourself tonight, James.” You told him, looking him in the eye as you slowly let go of his hand.

James almost stumbled as he brought his hand back. “Uh, yeah, I did.” He said, and you detected the slight reluctance of his speech. “You were really something out there, but Clint said I shouldn’t tell you that.”

“Oh, really?” You said, shooting Clint a playful glare as James blushed, realizing his words.

“Clint says you have an ego problem.” He informs you, wincing again as you giggled.

“I do, it’s not nearly big enough. Tell you what, though, if you can listen while I talk and boast about myself, we’ll let Clint pay for the food. Sound good?” you asked.

James smiled, which seemed to startle everyone else a little, and chuckled.

“Deal.” He said.

* * *

 

“I mean, yeah, you said I was good that night, but I thought it was nerves.” You say as Bucky loosens his hold on you. You think briefly that he’s going to leave the bed, but he stays lying beside you.

“It was, but… different nerves.”

“Different?”

“You caught my eye with your dancing, yeah. I told the truth.” Bucky says. “This was more like… y’know.”

“’Fraid I don’t.” you say. “I’ve never been nervous in my life.”

“Liar.” Bucky shoots back, looking you unflinchingly in the eye.

You don’t even blink, keeping your gaze even though you’re sure he can detect the waver in your jaw.

“You ever think Clint was pissed off he basically paid for your first date?” Bucky asks you.

You scoff.

“That wasn’t our first date,” you tell him. “Our first date was the Film Forum, remember?“

“That’s the timeline we’re going with? Not the dinner or the coffee?”

“Do you remember what happened then?”

Bucky takes one of your hands in his metal one, holding it delicately like the whole of you is made of glass and he doesn’t want to break it.

“I remember,” he whispers.

“Then you know why.”

* * *

 

After meeting James, you had begged Clint to give you the guy’s number. You didn’t tell him why, at first.

“C’mon, kid. You don’t want to deal with that.” Clint told you.

“Either you give me the number or I get it from Nat.” You replied. “I like the guy. He’s funny.”

“He said less than twenty words to you.”

“Twenty-six exactly, if I remember correctly.”

“Why do you really want his number? We’ve got the socializing well at hand.”

“Clint, either you give me the number, or I get it from Natasha _and_ tell her you’re impeding his progress. What’ll it be?”

You got the number, eventually. Apparently it involved all kinds of arm twisting and discussions on the other end of things that didn’t involve you, but when you finally got the number, you texted James immediately, reintroducing yourself.

**To James (2:17PM): Hey, this is the girl you met when Clint took you to Coppelia. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee later this week.**

His reply was near immediate.

**From James (2:18PM): I’d like that.**

It turned out later that Bucky hated coffee. But he was more than content to listen to you talk. The two of you didn’t do anything else but go for coffee for almost three months. You learned to call him Bucky, but still insisted on calling him James during more serious moments. Sometimes you wondered why he didn’t tell you to go away, and you went to Natasha for advice. Natasha had shrugged at you and told you that maybe your actions the night the two of you had met had made an impression on him. But there had been a sparkle in her eyes as she informed you that in between your meeting and you asking for his number, Bucky had gone to the ballet again, taking in another performance of _Coppélia_.

“Of course, I asked him what the plot was,” she told you. “He had no idea. Too busy watching you, I guess.”

That annoyed you a bit, because you were tired of guys who went after you for your looks. You weren’t drop dead gorgeous, but being a ballerina meant you had a body most guys liked on a superficial level. Of course, when they saw you naked, it was all over, but until then, guys liked you for your body without much caring about any other part of you. So you decided to test Bucky a little bit. Just a little.

 It was after _Coppélia_ had wrapped, and with it the company’s fall season. You were putting in practice in preparation for the company’s upcoming holiday run and winter season. You had no major parts lined up, but you liked to be kept limber and ready, if for no other reason that you never knew when someone would get sick or have to drop out. You were almost always the go-to girl when that happened. Still, sometimes you needed a break. And since you wanted to know if Bucky was really interested, it was killing two birds with one stone.

**To Bucky (3:15PM): Hey, just got out of practice. Catching a movie later at the Film Forum. Some Italian thing. Want to come?**

There was a long pause, so long that you had figured he didn’t want to. You were getting ready to send a group text to Faye and some of your other company friends when his text came.

**From Bucky (3:48PM): The one about the farm families? I’ve been meaning to go, but… well, you know.**

You did. Bucky generally wasn’t allowed to go out by himself for long periods of time, and you guessed that none of the others really wanted to see a three hour long film in an obscure Italian dialect.

**To Bucky (3:51PM): You’re in luck today, then. ;) It starts at 7:30. Swing by my place at 6:30-ish? Maybe we can grab a bite after.**

**From Bucky (3:56PM): Really? You want to?**

**To Bucky (3:58PM) Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t. See you at 6:30.**

It had been a little before six-thirty when you heard the knock on your door. You were still in your bedroom getting ready, but you called out, anyway.

“James? C’mon in!” you had given Clint a copy of your key when you first moved into your place, and you had recently asked him to make another copy and pass it onto Bucky, insisting it was less a dating thing and more about showing Bucky that people could trust him now. Clint just shook his head at you, but he had done as you asked.

You heard the key turning in the lock, but you were too busy looking for a shirt to notice Bucky walking into your apartment and standing in the doorway to your bedroom until you turned around, shirt in your hand.

At least you weren’t braless. _That_ would have been hard to live down. At least it was a cute bra; it wasn’t cute enough to draw attention away from the grisly-looking scar on your chest, though, and you felt the rising of panic when Bucky’s eyes landed squarely on your scar and his eyes widened.

“What… Are… Are you…” He stammered, and you felt that sense of defeat rising in you again.

Most guys are okay when you _explain_ the scar, but _seeing_ it has always made them disappear into the ether. If you had to guess, it was probably the whole “reminding them of their own mortality” thing. It didn’t help that Bucky was technically almost a hundred years old. He probably thought of his own mortality without any visual aid to remind him. Not to mention you had never even told him about the whole thing to begin with, so he just had that visual of the scar without context. He was probably torn between making sure you were okay and going on a rampage toward the invisible and nonexistent person who had harmed you.

You sighed. “Look, I can explain. Just… uh, just give me a second.” You said, pulling the shirt in your hand on, obscuring the scar from Bucky’s view again.

His eyes still rested on the area the scar occupied, because of course it did. You shook your head and, without warning, grabbed Bucky’s hand and led him into your kitchen, gesturing for him to sit at the kitchen table with you. He did, keeping his eyes mostly on your face, but once in a while flicking down to the obscured scar.

“Okay,” you began. “You should know that it looks worse than it is, now. I mean, it was never that bad to begin with.”

You let out a huff of breath, causing your hair to fly out of your face.

“I’ve danced since I was four, but it was never… It wasn’t until I was twelve or thirteen there was any problem. I was getting out of breath a lot, getting tired more easily. Then I collapsed on stage during my dance school’s winter recital. _The Nutcracker_ , if you really want to know.”

“It was a heart problem.” Bucky stated. Stated, not asked, like he already had connected the dots, like someone who was more knowledgeable about your story.

You nod. “Specifically an atrial septal defect. Uh, that’s when there’s a hole-“

“In the wall between the two chambers of the heart.” Bucky finished. You raised an eyebrow at him, making him shrug. “I have some experience with this sort of thing, doll.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, waiting for an explanation, but when none came, you nodded.

“Right.” You said finally. “So I had to have surgery to fix it. You should know it’s really not a big deal. I don’t know how things were back then-“ because you _knew_ Bucky’s experience had to be from long before, whatever it was. “But I’m okay now, really, I can still dance and everything, my life expectancy isn’t affected, so, uh, unless you have a problem with the scar itself…”

You trailed off, uncertain. Bucky bit his lip, but then he grabbed your hand and slipped it carefully underneath his shirt, leading your hand to rest at the mass of scar tissue where his shoulder met the metal arm.

“You’re not the only one with scars.” He told you. “And… as dumb and ridiculous as this may sound, I really like you.” He paused, biting his lip again. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Everything’s fine,” you affirmed with a nod, pulling your hand back. “I still have to see a cardiologist every so often, but I’ve had a clean bill of health since the initial surgery.”

Bucky nodded, and glanced at the clock.

“You still want to see that movie?” he asked you.

You smiled at him, and he returned the smile.

“Of course. I haven’t been to the movies in ages. Let me get my coat.” You told him, standing up from your chair. You went to grab your coat, but paused and turned around, standing close to Bucky, who was now standing. “And Bucky?”

“Hmm?”

You paused again, before throwing caution to the wind and giving him a quick kiss on the lips. You move away, but he gently placed his hands on your shoulders and pulled you back in for a much deeper kiss.

“I really like you, too.” You told him as the two of you parted.

* * *

 

“I took one look at that scar and my first thought was realizing how much more fragile it made you look,” Bucky confesses. “I knew what kind of scar it was, and all I could think was how I could lose you before anything ever really happened.”

“You took it well then, all things considering.” You say.

Bucky shakes his head.

“I was just good at hiding it then.” He tells you. “You were so insistent that you were fine, I just… I let myself believe it was okay.”

“I never told you then, how scared I was that you would leave. Everyone I’d ever told after it happened, they got scared for me. Even if they didn’t leave, there was this… Change, I guess?”

You let your eyes drift over to the window in your hospital room, looking out at the city below. It’s getting dark now, and visiting hours will be over soon. Sometimes the nurses on the ward let Bucky stay overnight, but tonight the head nurse is the one who always seems to have an axe to grind, so you know Bucky will be heading home alone tonight.

“You always treated me the same way, James. Nothing in you ever changed, not until…”

“I knew something was wrong that night.” Bucky tells you, and your eyes leave the window to meet his. His eyes look far away and distant again, but you can see the guilt in them, plain as day.

“Hey,” you say softly, reaching up a hand to rest on his jaw. “None of that.”

“Why are we always the unlucky ones?” he asks you, and you can see he’s holding back tears. “You and me? Why do we have to deal with this? Wasn’t everything that happened to us before we met enough?”

You smile at him. “You and I are strong people, James, but I think I had never met you and this happened…”

“Stop it,” he begs you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Please.”

* * *

 

Your thoughts turn to your collapse during the current season opening. You had been practicing like mad for your part as the Lilac Fairy in _The Sleeping Beauty_ , and you dismissed your tiredness as consequence of taking on a rather large and important role, even if it wasn’t one the roles of your dreams. Bucky had tried to convince you to slow down, but you reassured him you were taking care of yourself. He had had an overseas mission with Steve a few weeks before opening night, but he had promised to be there at the opening and left you with another reminder to “Please take it easy, doll!”

With Bucky gone, you began practicing more and more. It was no more than usual, really; at least, it was no more than you practiced for an upcoming season. Still, you noticed that Faye and the other dancers were constantly checking up on you.

“You’re out of breath, honey. How’s about chilling out on practice and catching lunch with me and Clarice?” Faye was playing Aurora, and she always asking you to take lunch with her and at least one other dancer, usually Clarice, who was playing Carabosse the evil fairy.

It was bribery with a side of subterfuge, obviously. Faye knew you would only relax if other principal players did the same, and since Aurora and Carabosse were just as important as the Lilac Fairy, you knew it made you look insane to keep practicing while Faye and Clarice took breaks. Besides, you weren’t doing yourself any favors. You heaved a sigh that felt harder on your lungs than usual.

“Fine, fine,” you affected a show of being irritated, but Faye’s grin told you she knew it was bull. “But you’re paying, Faye.”

“Don’t I always?” she said, grinning and throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, where’s your man these days? I know he wouldn’t stand for all that practicing. You two doing okay?”

“We’re _fine_ , Faye. He’s traveling for work. He’ll be back for opening night.” You told her.

Faye clicked her tongue, but let the matter drop and took you to lunch.

You don’t remember passing out during the performance, or the rush to the emergency room. You remember waking up to find Bucky speaking with your cardiologist in hushed but clearly harsh tones.

“You told her it would be fine,” you remember hearing him hiss.

“Mr. Barnes, sometimes a tear can reoccur. The important thing is-“

“The important thing is you fucked up!”

“James?” you had called weakly from your bed, and he immediately moved into your field of vision.

“Doll, it’s going to be okay. You’ll be fine.”

He had tried to reassure you, but you had heard the doctor’s words. It was only made worse when it was explained to you that the problem was much more serious than it had been last time.

“The tear is causing an increased flow of blood to the lungs. The blood flow to your lungs is increasing the blood pressure in your lungs. You may have permanent heart and lung damage, and we’ll need to do a heart and lung transplant if the tear is as bad as we believe.”

“And if I don’t get the transplant?” you asked, which made Bucky look aghast at you while the doctor shook his head and told you that that wasn’t advisable.

“I see,” you had said, nodding as Bucky took your hand.

You were fighting for your life now, you realized. Now the idea of your death was looking you full in the face, more than ever.

“Please don’t leave me,” you whispered to Bucky after the doctor had left. “Please.”

“I’m here for you, doll. I won’t leave you, ever.” Bucky reassured you.

“I should have listened to you, this is all my fault-“

“No, doll, don’t talk like that. The doctor said it was probably unavoidable, right?” he reminded you, and you nodded glumly. “Look, this whole thing would have happened to you even if you were the most relaxed person on earth. Nothing could have prevented this, okay?”

You nodded again, but it doesn’t make you feel better.

* * *

 

“I shouldn’t have taken that last mission.” Bucky tells you. “I would have known something was wrong.”

“Bull,” you say. “I’ve been dancing with Faye and Clarice and the rest of them longer than I’ve known you, and not a single one of them thought anything was wrong other than the fact I was so tired. They all thought I was just practicing too hard.”

“Did they all know about your heart issues?” Bucky asks.

“Yes.” You tell him bluntly. “Keeping a secret like that in a highly physical working environment is dumb. If they didn’t think anything was wrong…”

“I get it, I get it.” Bucky concedes, but the look in his eyes tells you he still blames himself for leaving.

You sigh. “You’re a stubborn jackass, James.” You tell him, and he manages a small smile at you. “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d find you annoying.”

“You find me annoying anyway.” Bucky reminds you.

The two of you lie together silently in your hospital bed after that, knowing visiting hours are probably drawing to a close soon.

“Marry me.” Bucky says out of nowhere, and your head snaps up as you stare at him in shock.

“If this is a pity proposal, James Buchanan Barnes-“

“No, no, doll.” Bucky sighs. “Look, I had this whole plan for opening night. I was going to take you out to eat after, at that diner where we used to drink coffee when we were getting to know each other? I even had a ring picked out; nothing fancy because I know you probably can’t wear fancy rings while you’re dancing. But then all this happened and-“

“Do you have it with you? The ring?” you asked, interrupting him.

He nods and sits up, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a ring box. He opens it and hands you the box. Taking the ring out, you narrow your eyes at it. It’s a small ruby set in rose gold, but you notice the way the ruby seems to glow and change color depending on the way you hold it in the light, sometimes appearing a bright pink and other times a deep red. In a strange way, it reminds you of a heart, which makes you smile at the absurdity.

You hold the ring out to Bucky. “Ask me again,” you whisper.

Bucky takes the ring from you but keeps holding it out, poised to put it on your finger. “Marry me, doll, please?” he asks, his voice coming out in a rasp.

“Yes,” you breathe out, and he slides the ring on your finger. He’s smiling, but there are tears in his eyes, too.

“You have to fight now, doll. You _have_ to.” Bucky says.

You give Bucky a soft chaste kiss.

“I love you.” You tell him.

“I love you, so much.” He whispers.

You smile at Bucky and close your eyes.

“Will you be here when I wake up?” you ask him.

“They’ll have to drag me out of here.” He tells you.

“We’ll have to make arrangements tomorrow.” You say.

Bucky nods.

“Right. As soon as possible.” He says, brushing your hair away from your face.

“I love you. Don’t forget, okay?” you ask, and Bucky kisses your forehead. You feel the slight dampness of his tears sliding down his face as he kisses you.

“I promise, doll.” He says as you fall asleep. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> The movie mentioned in the story is meant to be _The Tree of Wooden Clogs._


End file.
